


The Guest Bedroom

by holyfant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Divorce, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8634751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: This is not an invitation, it's an order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I give myself permission to write a short smutty ficlet as a break. Spoiler: I can't do short.
> 
> Unbeta'ed, so if you spot typos or other errors, feel free to point out.

_Harry_

 

 _Do I have to explain why it's a little worrying that you've instructed your wards to start playing_ All By Myself _whenever Hermione or I try to get through to your Floo? Hermione says you might be regressing. I remind you that you being sixteen wasn't a very pleasant time for any of us and we would all like to avoid experiencing it all over again._

 

_Let me through, you wanker. Hermione's doing the overnight chai spa treatment at Parvati and Lavender's place – says it's particularly pregnant-lady-approved. I don't want to know either. So, since she won't be back until morning, obviously, you are coming to our house and we will be drinking Firewhiskey until we don't remember what the names of our (ex, as the case may be)-spouses are. (Don't tell Hermione I said that.) This is not an invitation, it's an order, and my owl will not leave you alone until you send me a letter back saying that you'll be here at eight._

 

_And it's also no use pretending you haven't read this letter, I've put a Registration Charm on it. Who said only Slytherins were devious?_

 

_Ron_

 

#

 

Harry brought flowers.

 

“I'm sorry,” Ron said politely, “you must have me confused with Neville Longbottom, the only male friend we have in common who would be happier to get a bunch of forget-me-nots than a bottle of booze.”

 

“Shut up,” Harry said, stepping inside and shaking off raindrops. “They're for Hermione, to apologise for what she's going to find in the morning and sympathise with her for having such an insensitive prick for a husband.”

 

“Ha! I'm sure she wouldn't agree that my prick is insensitive.”

 

“Ron.” Harry paused in the act of trying to tame his hair by running his hand through it. “Please stop talking.”

 

Ron grinned, then gave him a critical one-over. “Merlin, Harry, have you never heard of _Impervius_? No, don't tell me, the rain made you feel brooding and romantic in an uncaring world.”

 

“Yes, well, masochism and magic don't always go together.”

 

“Ohh, I'll have to tell Hermione you've learned a new word.”

 

A Drying Charm later, Harry followed Ron to the familiar living room, and put the flowers into a vase on the dresser. He found himself automatically looking at the groupings of pictures set out there: the well-known and well-loved faces all looked out at him, animated in happiness – Ron going teary-eyed during his vows at their wedding; Ron, Hermione and Harry with magical fireworks bursting over their head from New Years' in 2000; the yearly Weasley group shot, ever expanding; Harry giving Teddy a piggy-back ride; the one Muggle shot of Hermione's parents eating jollof rice in Nigeria with her grandparents. Without really wanting to, Harry looked for himself in the Weasley family picture: it captured him giving Ginny a spontaneous kiss on the cheek.

 

“Mate, none of that, all right?” Ron said. “This is a no-moping-allowed sort of night. Sit down.” His hands steering Harry away from the photos were gentle but decisive.

 

“Why even invite your recently-divorced best friend if he's not allowed to wallow in self-pity?” Harry said, as he sat down in a corner of the sofa and touched the familiar and comforting fabric of one of Mrs. Weasley's quilts. “It's pretty much my state of being right now to be preoccupied with my own misery.”

 

“Story of your life,” Ron said, pouring them both generous measures of whiskey.

 

“That's harsh.” Harry frowned and took the tumbler. “Tell me, does Hermione really know that you planned this for tonight?”

 

“Yes. She made me write to you, wand at my jugular and all.” Ron sat down in the armchair next to the sofa. His jokey demeanor changed. “Mate, you shouldn't cut off communication with us, it gets Hermione all tetchy, and that's generally not considered to be a good thing for pregnant women, you know.”

 

Harry winced. “I know, I'm sorry. But she had a routine going of Flooing me in the morning _and_ in the evening, Ron.”

 

“Oh, suck it up. She's just worried about you! And, granted, her maternal feelings are a little out of control at the moment,” Ron conceded. “She's started leaving Patronuses with Melissa about having me check in after fieldwork to make sure I haven't died. Says being a single mother isn't in her master plan for life, or something.”

 

Harry drank. The lovely bitter heat of the whiskey warmed his throat.

 

“Then again,” Ron mused, “I think her hormones are just going every which way and she gets all hot and bothered at the thought of all our dirty Auroring and she wants me to tell her all the details.”

 

Harry stiffened. He sipped his whiskey again to avoid any mental images forming; he was only half successful. If there was one upside to his promotion to Head of the department, it was that he didn't have to witness as much of Ron's sweaty and physically affectionate post-fighting state, nor as many of the stories about how appreciative Hermione was of that part of the job. “The pact, Ron,” he reminded Ron, with the familiar twinge of guilt.

 

Ron rolled his eyes. “The pact isn't on anymore, Harry. You're not married to Ginny anymore, are you?”

 

“No, thanks for the reminder.”

 

“So now that we've got rid of the problem of your wife being my sister, that leaves us finally free to talk about our sexual exploits, as best friends should always do.”

 

“Even after over fifteen years I honestly don't know if you have the right idea about friendship,” Harry said, shaking his head. He hesitated briefly. “How is she?”

 

“Harry, you know how she is,” Ron said, almost sharp. “She's – just like you, she's doing okay, but it's hard for both of you, and that's all right and it's normal and all of that. Hermione and me are trying hard to remain friends with everyone involved here, so let's not go into detail.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I thought we weren't going to talk about Ginny,” Ron said.

 

Harry shrugged. “You brought it up. Besides, _I_ never agreed that we weren't going to talk about her.”

 

“Your agreement was implied.” Ron leaned forwards towards Harry. “McCurry and Haverside say hullo, and told me to tell you to get your arse back in the office.”

 

Harry let him get away with the change of topic. Work was safe, anyway. “I doubt it was in those words.”

 

“I think you underestimate how much your employees fancy you, mate. It's even entirely possible that I've left off a _luscious_ somewhere in that sentence, in order to prevent unpleasant intrusive memories. I'm a sensitive friend that way.” He reached over and patted Harry on the knee.

 

Harry couldn't help laughing. He felt better already. “You do know how to cheer me up, Ron.”

 

“That's my job, isn't it?” Ron said lightly. They tipped their whiskey glasses against each other. “That, and running the entire department in your absence.”

 

“I'll be back soon. I just –”

 

“Need some time. Mate, I know, and I don't even think it's a bad idea.”

 

Harry ran his finger over the rim of his glass. “I should really thank Hermione for that therapist recommendation.”

 

“I think the flowers will do just fine for that.” Ron hesitated. “Er, you want to...”

 

“Talk about therapy? Not really. Especially considering your habit of passing on everything I say to Hermione, so that tomorrow I'd be getting a secondary analysis by owl post, complete with recommended reading list.”

 

“Oh, she wouldn't,” Ron said easily, and knocked back the remainder of his drink. He licked his lips. “She knows she should never try to be your therapist. Now if only she'd get the same idea about me.” He smiled. “I wonder why no one ever talks about how hard it is to be married to a psychologist.”

 

“I think that's because you already talk about it enough to cover the topic extensively.”

 

Ron waved the whiskey bottle over from the drinks cabinet and made it refill their glasses. “Let's just get absolutely smashed,” he suggested. “So that when we get to your paralysing abandonment and commitment issues, and to my sizeable fear of becoming a father, we'll be too drunk to remember anything about it in the morning.”

 

“Sounds constructive,” Harry said, nodding, and cheerfully they clinked their drinks together.

 

#

 

On their fifth tumbler, filled quite a bit beyond what was acceptable for whiskey, Ron said: “Sooooo, when are you throwing yourself back on the market?”

 

Harry groaned. “No, not this, I beg you.”

 

“The _love and sex market_ , is what I mean,” Ron pursued. “The market filled with lusty lonely ladies, who are all, er, rifling through the aisles looking for a hot and unreliable adventure to … to waste their cooking skills on.”

 

“Yeah, thanks, stop talking,” Harry said.

 

“The market of late-night intimacy,” Ron said, slurring a little on the sibilant, “where we try to forget our ex, our ex –” He tried again: “– existential aloneness.”

 

“That's not even a word.”

 

Ron made a face over the rim of his glass. “Yeah, thanks, _Hermione_.”

 

“I'm gonna tell her you said that,” Harry said, quite satisfied with himself.

 

“Oh, you wouldn't dare.”

 

They glared unsteadily at each other, then burst into laughter and drank again. “I hate whiskey,” Harry said, holding up his glass and trying to focus on it.

 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed happily.

 

“I hate – divorces.”

 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, less happily.

 

“I hate –”

 

“Yeah, I get it, you hate a lot of things,” Ron said, and he looked at Harry. One blue eye was slightly more droopy than the other, giving him a lopsided look. “You hate yourself, you hate your life. You hate, what's it called. Lick – liquorice, which, to be honest, makes you a pretty weird person, mate.”

 

“Thanks a lot, Ron, always nice to get your support.”

 

“I'm always here for you, you know that. Y'know, Harry, you should – have sex with someone,” Ron said sagely. “Nothing like a good, wild shag with someone you don't know to feel better.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Says the man who's only ever slept with his wife and who's loved her since age eleven.”

 

“That's a – filthy lie,” Ron said, pointing an unsteady finger at Harry. “Fourteen, at the _earliest_.”

 

“Yeah, you tell yourself that.”

 

“Hermione didn't love me at fourteen,” Ron said sadly. “She hated me at fourteen …”

 

“So did I. You were a sack of shit at fourteen.”

 

“True!” Ron laughed and took another gulp of whiskey. “Well, you – you're _still_ a sack of shit at – how old are we? Twenty-six. So that works out, hey?”

 

“I'm offended,” Harry said, trying hard to pronounce the words. “M'therapist says I'm – developmentally delayed.”

 

“Dev – dev-el-op-men-tally delayed,” Ron echoed. “'s hard to say.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why are you… thingy? Delayed?”

 

“'cause,” Harry said intelligently, “Mum and Dad died and the Dursleys fucked me up.”

 

“That's true,” Ron conceded.

 

“And then Voldemort tried to – off me all the fucking time and I never got to be a normal kid,” Harry finished, and grinned at Ron. “'s why I'm _delayed_.”

 

“It's all Voldemort's fault!” Ron exclaimed happily, and he raised his glass. “To Voldemort being dead as a doornail.”

 

“To Voldemort being dead! Fuck him!” They clinked glasses too enthusiastically, slopping whiskey over their hands. “And!” Harry said, brandishing his glass. “I don't know – anything about normal, whatsits, relationships! I know fuck all about love! So now I'm getting divorced!”

 

“Hooray!” Ron called, and smashed his glass into Harry's again, which shattered on impact. “Oh, _shit_ – no, I'll do it –” Clumsily he _Reparo_ 'd Harry's glass; the shards sprang back together. “Are you bleeding?”

 

Harry was laughing, half out of shock, half out of hilarity. “No, I'm okay.”

 

“You're not, you're bleeding, here – no, give me your hand –”

 

“No-oooo, you're too drunk, you're going to fuck it up,” Harry whined, trying to keep his hand out of Ron's reach. “Ron, you wanker, stop –”

 

“Okay, have it your way,” Ron grumbled, and stopped trying to Heal Harry's hand. Instead, he took hold of it and sucked its whiskey-and-blood-wet index finger into his mouth.

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Harry said, and tried to pull his hand back, but Ron held it in place. He sucked on the finger, slid his tongue across the cut. Harry, suddenly confronted with the reality of Ron's mouth around his finger, received an electric shock that chased away part of his drunkenness and set his entire body on edge. “Ron,” he said, mouth going dry, “ _what the_ _hell_ _are you doing_?”

 

Ron released him. There was a smear of Harry's blood on his lower lip. “I haven't got the faintest,” he said, and started laughing. “Mum always used to – but I dunno why! It doesn't – make any sense, does it?”

 

Harry, his hand restored to him, held it in his other hand as if it were a wounded animal. Fresh blood welled from the cut.

 

“You'll have to Heal it yourself, mate, I'm – definitely too drunk.” Ron gave him a relaxed, wide smile, but the sight of his lower lip smudged with Harry's blood and the memory of his tongue around Harry's finger were so vivid that Harry had no idea how to respond. Ron squinted at him, then frowned. “Mate?”

 

Harry blinked. “What?”

 

“You look –” He waved a hand in Harry's direction. “You all right? Does it hurt?”

 

“Oh, no, it's fine.”

 

Ron rested his tumbler of whiskey against his lip, against the blood. Harry looked at it and found it hard to look away. “Sure?”

 

“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “I feel a bit … wobbly.”

 

“All right,” Ron said, patting him on the thigh. “This may be the universe telling us to stop drinking for a bit.”

 

Harry Healed himself carefully; his wand hand trembled a little. The cut closed cleanly; the blood remained, sticky and drying.

 

“What were we talking about?” Ron said, frowning.

 

“Voldemort.”

 

“Oh, shit, no, that's no good. We were…” He concentrated. “Right, we were saying that you should have a good one-night stand.” Satisfied, he nodded. “Let's return to that.”

 

“Please, let's not,” Harry said. “I don't do that.”

 

“And there's your problem! You could have anyone! Just show your mug in any club, make 'em sign a contract that they won't sell the story to the Prophet, and Bob's your Kneazle.”

 

“Yeah. Not interested.”

 

Ron peered at him. “Sometimes I don't get you, Haz. All of the fame, but none of the, thingies. Upsides.”

 

“Don't call me that,” Harry said, quite sincerely. “Ron, that's just not what I want.”

 

Ron went quiet. He seemed to be thinking about it. “What _do_ you want?”

 

Harry sighed. “Someone who isn't star-struck, to start with.”

 

“How about a friend, then?”

 

“Oh, Merlin, fuck off,” Harry said sharply. “ _You_ go and take the risk of ruining the few friendships you have.”

 

“Er, yeah. I _did_ ,” Ron said, and he smiled. “I recommend it.”

 

Harry closed his eyes. The inside of his eyelids was an undulating darkness. Very suddenly and urgently, he didn't want this conversation anymore. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know.”

 

Silence followed, as if by cutting off Ron's visual presence Harry had also turned off his sound. He floated for a while on the cusp of feeling nauseous, limbs feeling far-off as if they had been disconnected from the rest of his body. From the drunk intimacy of the evening flowed now a slow sadness that welled from some deep place in him he hadn't quite known the existence of. It took him some time to realise tears were moistening his eyelids; when he touched his fingers to his face they came away wet, which surprised him. “Oh, damn.”

 

Ron's weight dropped into the sofa beside him. Harry opened his eyes, saw Ron's worried, exasperated look.

 

“Shit, Harry.” Ron pulled him into an awkwardly angled sideways embrace, tucking Harry's shoulder along his chest. “ _Mate_. I'm sorry, all of that came out wrong. We love you, all right?” He patted the side of Harry's head with a large hand.

 

Harry nodded tightly, biting down hard to stop himself from starting to cry in earnest. He succeeded in pushing down the knot of emotion in his throat. “I know,” he said when he felt able, then cleared his throat, trying to get his voice steadier. “Thanks, Ron.” He tried, for a futile instant, to pull back from the hug, because there was too much of Ron all of a sudden, too much of his familiar smell – but Ron wouldn't let him.

 

“You're going to be all right,” Ron muttered, still petting Harry's ear. “You're gonna be fine.”

 

Harry couldn't help laughing a little at that. “Yeah.” He took a breath, closed his eyes, allowed his body to relax against Ron's. It was nice, really … why was he so tense all the time … he should just unwind a little now and then …

 

Ron started running the long line of his nose across Harry's cheek, and this didn't register as particularly odd until he pressed his mouth to Harry's jaw in a brief, soft kiss. Harry blinked.

 

Ron did it again, kissing the bit of Harry's cheek that was not quite cheek anymore and not quite mouth yet. Automatically Harry turned his face a fraction into it, and Ron kissed the corner of his mouth. The shock of his lips there broke through the cloud of Harry's drunkenness.

 

“Whoa, Ron –” He pulled out of the embrace, heart hammering.

 

Ron sat back. His face was red but his expression was neutral. “No?”

 

Harry gaped. “What kind of question –? What are you doing?”

 

Ron licked his lips; Harry's eyes were involuntarily drawn towards his mouth, with that little smear of blood on the lower lip. “Dunno. Just – thought you might want to.”

 

“Okay, you're drunk,” Harry said. “ _I'm_ drunk. You're married. To _Hermione_.”

 

“Er, yeah. None of that has to be a problem,” Ron said.

 

Harry stared at him.

 

“Look, yeah,” Ron said, “I am drunk, and I'll probably be sorry in the morning, 'cause –” He peered at Harry. “Sorry. We thought maybe you wanted to, and – with the...” He gestured vaguely between them. “I thought… maybe now… But. Stupid. Sorry.”

 

Harry tried to make his brain get through all that. “We?”

 

“Yeah. Hermione and me. Goes to show I should never do anything without her. I always fuck it up.” Ron shook his head, and started getting up. “I need some water.”

 

Harry caught him by the arm. “Am I getting this right?” he said sharply. “Hermione and you, you _both_ thought, that I –?”

 

“Yeah.” Ron looked down on him blankly.

 

Harry waited for more, but nothing came. “And that's fine?”

 

“Yes.” Ron must have caught Harry's expression, because he said: “Okay, long story short, erm, it was always going to be me and her, exclusive, unless – well, unless it was you. Us and you.” Embarrassed, he ran his hand over the back of his head. “We were going to tell you, but I s'pose I've messed that up now.”

 

“What the hell, Ron.”

 

“Yeah, I know. Stupid. Hermione's going to kill me for this.” He winced. “She had a _plan_.”

 

“Wait.” Harry shook his head. “If this is… then what was all that about going out to shag people in clubs?”

 

“I was trying to find out more about what you wanted! I know, I'm pathetic without Hermione, I'm a shit investigator.” He smiled. “At least I'm good at the wandwork. I'm getting us some water, okay. Don't go anywhere.”

 

“ _Wandwork_ ,” Harry muttered to himself, watching him go into the kitchen. “Merlin.” He shook his head. He felt hindered by the alcohol; his thought were heavy and fuzzy, but he was still aware of some cool current of fresh certainty somewhere underneath: this meant that _he could have this_.

 

“Here.” Ron handed him a tall glass of tap water and sat down next to him. “Drink first, have your identity crisis later.”

 

They drained their glasses in deep gulps and set them on the table. There was a long silence.

 

“I'm not having a crisis,” Harry finally said, which was only a little bit of a lie. They looked at each other until Ron's expression changed.

 

“Oh,” he said, and he was going to say more, but Harry leaned in and kissed him, feeling remarkably like the distance between their mouths was incredibly short and incredibly long at the same time.

 

“Mm –” Ron kissed back, his hand coming up to slide to the back of Harry's neck. His stubble was scratchy, his lips thin and not as soft as any other person's that Harry had ever kissed. He pressed into it with an unfamiliar strength that made warmth bloom in Harry's gut. He kissed Ron's upper lip, his lower, then navigated clumsily around a longer nose than he was used to, trying to change the angle. Ron laughed a little at that; Harry retaliated by slipping the tip of his tongue into Ron's mouth. Ron let him in, and the sound he made now was pleased, soft. Their tongues slid together and Harry's stomach tightened with the pleasure and fear of it.

 

Ron pulled back quite suddenly. “O-ookay,” he said, “I'm gonna stop this here.” Before Harry had time to rearrange his face, Ron said: “Oh, no – mate, I want to, I do. But Hermione should _really_ know about this.”

 

“Oh,” Harry said. “Right. Of course.”

 

Ron kissed him briefly, closed-mouthed and sweet. “Let's talk in the morning, yeah? That's – if I'm still alive in the morning, after Hermione finds out about this.”

 

Harry smiled. “Nothing more than you'd deserve.”

 

Ron got to his feet, and stretched. “Traitor,” he said pleasantly. “Didn't hear you complaining a minute ago.”

 

Harry, only slightly wobbly, got up too. “Kind of hard to complain with your tongue down my throat,” he said, feeling reckless.

 

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

 

At the guest bedroom door, they said goodbye like a teenage couple after a first date, standing a little closer together than strictly necessary.

 

“So,” Harry said. “Night, I guess?”

 

“Merlin, I feel like I'm sixteen.”

 

“You're less spotty now, don't worry.”

 

“You know, I don't want to banish you to the guest bedroom, mate, but I think, in this case –” Ron grimaced. “If we get round to shagging while Hermione has to sit around wrapped in tea leaves and pretending mocktails are fun, I'm pretty sure she's not going to be happy.”

 

“Yeah, 'course, we can't do that.”

 

They didn't move.

 

Ron laughed softly. “Fuck. C'mere.” He pulled Harry into a hug that lasted long beyond their usual embraces. Harry rested his cheek on Ron's shoulder, feeling warm all over.

 

Ron squeezed him even closer. “Think you'll still want to in the morning?” he said, so quietly Harry only just heard.

 

Harry vaguely thought about telling him about how long this had been in the back his mind, nudged constantly to the side by life and habits and fear and assumptions – he said, softly: “Yeah, I think so.”


	2. Chapter 2

Opening his eyes came with the unpleasant business of light splitting his brain into screaming particles of pain.

 

“Ugh,” he groaned, and rolled over to bury his head back into the pillow and shut out the offending light. He waiting a while for the insistent throbbing in his head to calm, so that he could crack one eye open carefully. For a moment the wallpaper with its light blue pattern confused him, but then he remembered where he was.

 

“Right,” he told himself, and then decided not to deal with it just yet. He closed his eyes.

 

He floated back into half-sleep, but after a while – impossible to say how long – he heard the muttering of voices at his door; he couldn't tell what they were saying. He took a moment to gather himself, then worked himself to an upright position and swung his legs off the bed. He sat on its edge, waiting for his head to agree to the proceeding of things, and then finally got up and opened the door.

 

Ron and Hermione were on the other side, clearly in the middle of a hushed argument, both pointing fingers at one another. There was a breakfast tray full of food floating in mid-air behind them.

 

“Hi,” Harry croaked.

 

They dropped their fingers and turned towards him, looking a little caught out. “See, I told you he'd be up,” Ron said.

 

“Yes, _all right_ ,” Hermione said. Her expression softened when she looked at Harry. “Good morning.”

 

“Hm. Depends who you ask, I think.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

 

“We made breakfast,” she said. “Well … brunch, I suppose. And some Hangover Cure, too.”

 

“Oh, thank Merlin.” He drank the flask she offered him in three long gulps, biting down on his revulsion at the taste, and struggled through those first five horrible seconds when it was always uncertain whether his stomach was going to accept the potion or eject it immediately.

 

“Better?” Ron smiled in sympathy.

 

Harry shuddered. “Ugh. Yeah. Thanks.” The painful haze in his head started clearing, his stomach settled. He took a deep breath, and then realised how expectantly they were looking at him. “Erm.”

 

“Can we come in?”

 

“Er, yeah, of course.”

 

Inside the bedroom they stood around a bit awkwardly.

 

“It's not really breakfast in bed unless we're in bed, is it?” Ron said.

 

“Right.” Harry clambered into bed a little self-consciously, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was only in his pyjama trousers while both of them were fully dressed. Hermione levitated the tray over to him, before she and Ron got between the covers on either side of him. All three of them sat with their backs against the headboard. The sunlight streaming into the room warmed the sheets. Harry's stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation.

 

“Omelettes,” Ron said happily, and extended the tray with his wand so it sat on his lap and Hermione's, too – in her case pushed out a bit by her five month belly.

 

“I've already had breakfast at the spa,” she said, “but what better time to use the eating for two excuse?”

 

“You always say that the eating for two thing is rubbish,” Ron said.

 

“Shhh.”

 

For a while they ate in contented silence. Now that the Hangover Cure had kicked in fully, Harry found he was ravenous. He was on his fifth piece of toast when Hermione cleared her throat in her familiar _I-have-something-important-to-say_ way.

 

“So, I hear that _someone_ , true to form, substituted alcohol for sensitivity last night?” she asked cheerfully.

 

Harry laughed a little. “That's one way to put it.”

 

Ron scoffed. “At least I'm efficient.”

 

“Well, _I_ certainly wouldn't have told Harry about this only four weeks after his divorce was finalised, and definitely not while on a whiskey bender,” Hermione said pointedly.

 

“Oh, psh. You and your _emotional boundaries_. It worked, didn't it?” Ron nicked a piece of toast off Harry's plate and popped it into his mouth. “You're just ticked off because you weren't here to see our extremely passionate and sexy first kiss.”

 

“Unfortunately you forget that I know what you kiss like when you're drunk,” Hermione said. She patted Harry on the arm. “I sympathise, Harry.”

 

Harry answered her smile briefly, then ducked his head and focused on his egg. It was a little hard to look her straight in the eye.

 

“I resent that,” Ron said. “Defend my honour, Harry.”

 

“Er.”

 

“Oh, that _hurts.”_

 

Harry flashed Ron a smile, and felt a pleasant burst of warmth when Ron all-out winked at him.

 

“It must be a bit much, though, isn't it?” Hermione said gently. “Are you okay?”

 

Harry thought about it. “Yes, I think I am.” He looked at her now: her lovely, familiar face, with its beautiful glow that her pregnancy had added to it, the full dark lips that he'd always forbidden himself to think about for too long.

 

She smiled. “What did he actually tell you, before slipping his tongue in like the animal he is?”

 

“You know,” Ron said, “I'm not sure I appreciate the tone of this conversation.”

 

“Well…” Harry dug through his muddled memories from the night before. “Something about it always being you and him – unless, er, unless it was _me_.” Ron _had_ said that, he had. Harry felt his cheeks heating at the implication.

 

Hermione leaned forward to direct an approving look at Ron around Harry. “That's actually very well put, Ron.”

 

“Thank you! That's what _I_ thought.”

 

“So… how do you feel about that?”

 

“Stop her before she gets too psychologist-y, Harry.”

 

“Shut up, Ron.”

 

Harry exhaled. “I, er, I dunno,” he said. “It's definitely new, I suppose.”

 

“Is it?” She tilted her head. “Had you never thought about it?”

 

He wasn't sure how to answer that question; to say yes felt vulnerable, to say no felt like he would be shutting it down.

 

“Because we had the idea that it was possible that you felt the same way we did,” she continued. “Of course, we realised that we might be wrong, that we were completely misreading you … but we know you, Harry.” Her expression was kind. “You get a certain way when you're being brave and selfless and trying to push away something you want.”

 

He smiled, uncomfortable. “I suppose.”

 

“Hey, mate.” Ron looked serious. “We're in here with you because we agreed that we want this. If you don't, that's all right, but – there's no shame in owning up to wanting something. It's just us, okay?”

 

Harry was silent as that sunk in, and then he gathered himself, and said: “Yeah, you're right. It's, erm, yeah. I'm interested.”

 

Hermione squeezed his arm. “Lovely,” she said.

 

“So – it's the three of us, then?” Harry asked, picking at the sheet.

 

“That's what we were hoping for,” Hermione said. “Look – there's a lot to be said. It comes down to – we're happy together, but both of us, in our own way, find it hard to be without you.” She smiled. “We've always missed you, Harry, any time you weren't around.”

 

Harry looked at Ron. “She's right,” Ron said easily. “That's pretty much it. And you know – we'll talk you through the whole thing sometime, mate, but my question is: instead of analysing ourselves, can we just get naked and see how we like it? Because I sort of fancy both of you, and we're in a bed, and it just seems like a good gamble.” He held Harry's look and raised his eyebrows.

 

Hermione laughed. “No points for sensitivity, Ron.”

 

“Lots of points for moving things along, though.”

 

“What do you say, Harry?” Hermione touched his arm again. “Okay with you?”

 

He exhaled. “Yes, that's okay. That's, erm, very okay.”

 

“Told you he was keen,” Ron said.

 

Hermione ignored him. She sent the tray off the bed with a wave of her hand, and then took Harry's jaw in his hand, directing his face down so she could kiss his mouth. It was soft and careful, as if she was trying him out. She pulled back and made a little _huh_ sound, looking up at him with bright eyes, as if he were some interesting problem she was going to solve. He ducked his head and kissed her again, taking control of it this time, letting himself appreciate that he could finally kiss that beautiful full mouth that he'd so often guiltily looked at whenever she was thinking and biting her lip.

 

She pulled back with a satisfied expression. “I always thought you'd be a good kisser.”

 

“Good thing we're not doing this at eighteen,” Harry said, though when he said it he felt a little, momentary thrill of loss at what he perhaps could have had for all those years.

 

“I'm sure you were fine then too,” Hermione said. “But so life goes.” She kissed him again, let him slide his tongue into her mouth, and moved her small hand up his bare bicep to his shoulder. They broke apart at a sudden thumping noise next to them.

 

“Shit,” Ron said, hopping along on one foot, trying to get his jeans off. “I knew I shouldn't have got dressed in the first place.”

 

“And deprive us of this show?” Hermione said. “Surely not.”

 

“I'm not ashamed about being eager for this,” Ron said earnestly, and finally got his foot out of his trousers. Harry watched him undress, feeling a dirty little thrill at doing it so openly; a conditioned response to how he'd so often sneaked secret looks at Ron in their dorm or the department's changing rooms.

 

Hermione folded back the sheets and sat up on her knees. She lifted her shirt over her head and unclipped her bra. Harry didn't quite know where to look first – at Ron, who was now completely naked and half-hard, or at Hermione, whose pregnancy-full breasts drooped in such a lovely way. “I'm not dressed for this, to be honest,” she said, laying a hand on the belly band supporting her bump. “It's really hard to take this off sexily.”

 

“I'll help,” Ron said, so she got off the bed and went over to him, unbuttoning her trousers. Harry, under the covers, pushed his pyjama trousers down his hips and kicked them away, and then he sat watching, feeling both aroused and a little awkward as Ron and Hermione got the belly sleeve off her and divested her of her pants. They looked natural, working together as they did, with the practised ease of a team.

 

“Oh, hullo,” Ron said, when they were both naked.

 

She smiled up at him. “Hi. I see you're happy to see me.” She wrapped her hand around his cock.

 

“Oh, you think that's for you, do you?” Ron said, and leaned down to kiss her.

 

They made such a compelling picture, with their skin colours contrasting so beautifully, and the bulge of their child between them, that Harry felt his throat seizing up. It was hard to believe any of this was really happening; that they were allowing him into this.

 

Hermione broke the kiss and looked at Harry. “Don't worry, Harry, we haven't forgotten about you,” she said lightly, as Ron kissed her temple.

 

“That would have been a bit awkward,” he managed to make himself say, and then with an immense tightening of his heart he watched as they came towards him and joined him in bed: their bodies, off-limits for so long, hidden points of desire that he'd glimpsed over the years and had always had to turn himself away from. They were both smiling.

 

“Are we sure this isn't a dream?” he asked them weakly, and Hermione laughed and snuggled up to him on his side, sliding her hand across his chest, her warm belly pushing into his side. Ron hovered over him, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and dropped his mouth on Harry's, kissing him hard, with the force that Harry had briefly got to know the previous night.

 

“Pretty good dream, if it is,” Hermione said into his ear, and caressed his nipples. Before long her hand strayed down his abdomen, chasing the shivers of his responding muscles, and cupped his cock.

 

Ron snogged him hard, lowering himself on Harry's other side. Hermione stroked him slowly to full hardness, igniting the simmering arousal that had been gathering in his gut. They stayed like that for a while, Ron and Harry's kissing growing a little more sloppy as Hermione upped the pace. When she thumbed his glans on an upstroke, Harry gasped and broke off the kiss with Ron.

 

“What do you want to do, Harry?” Hermione asked.

 

“Merlin, I dunno,” he breathed. _Everything_ , he thought.

 

“You mean you've never thought about it before?” she teased, smiling.

 

“Of course I have,” he said, without thinking about it.

 

Ron laughed. “You hear that, Hermione? Of course he has.” He pressed another kiss to Harry's mouth. “Dirty bastard. Bet he's thought loads about shagging you, Hermione.”

 

“Well, I'm a little challenged positions-wise at the moment,” she said, “but if you get behind me, Harry, that generally works. If that's something you'd like to do.”

 

“Yes,” he sighed, “absolutely.”

 

“Lovely.” She beamed.

 

“Ron,” Harry said, “can I suck your cock first?”

 

There was a beat of silence, and a very small point of cold fear formed in Harry's gut; suddenly he was certain that he'd stepped over some unspoken boundary, that he'd made a huge mistake.

 

“I –” Ron said, gazing down at Harry, looking truly flustered for the first time. Harry was already opening his mouth to take it back, but Ron said: “Do you _want_ to?”

 

Harry couldn't think of a convincing lie, so he said: “Well, yeah.”

 

Harry didn't miss the way Ron glanced at Hermione. "All right then,” he said. He was blushing quite distinctly now. "That would be – really good.”

 

Harry sat up, a little confused. “Er, okay.”

 

“The thing is, Harry,” Hermione said lightly, “Ron never really believed me when I told him that I thought you wanted _him_ , too.”

 

“'Mione, please,” Ron said, and he seemed quite serious. “Can we not do this now?”

 

“I'm just telling him,” she said bracingly. “It was going to come up sometime, wasn't it?”

 

Harry frowned at Ron. “That's a bit of an odd thing to think after last night.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know, all right? And I get all of the psychoanalysis I need from Hermione, so we don't need to go into it now.” Ron looked back at Harry rather obstinately; it was touching, in a way. And, well, Harry understood, didn't he? He'd always known about this.

 

“Fine,” he said. He got between Ron's legs, nudging them apart with his knees. “Then we won't.” He leaned down and blew lightly on Ron's cock, gratified when it jerked slightly. He looked up. Ron's eyes were wide. “I do want you, mate,” Harry said, and then he took Ron into his mouth slowly, the flavour of him a blend of strange and familiar. Ron tensed, his hands found their way to Harry's head; it was Hermione who made a sound.

 

Harry took as much of Ron's cock into his mouth as he could, then let him slip back out almost all the way and sucked around the head.

 

“Oh, bloody buggering – Harry,” Ron murmured, “have you done this before?”

 

Harry hummed in response, and was rewarded by Ron's sharp intake of breath and his fingers tightening in Harry's hair. He did it again just for kicks; Ron made a low, needy sound. His own arousal flared at the feeling of Ron's cock plumping up further in his mouth.

 

“He has?” Hermione asked, interested.

 

“I'm sure he'll – tell us all about it sometime,” Ron said, “when – mmm – when his mouth's free. Right, mate? Oh – fuck –” He moaned openly when Harry sucked him hard on the upstroke in retaliation.

 

“Ohh, he's good at it, isn't he?” Hermione said. “You look _so_ good like this, both of you.” She got next to Harry and started gliding her hands across his back; just long, warm touches of her hands on him. Harry sucked Ron's glans, let it slip out of his mouth and licked up the underside of his cock with the flat of his tongue before taking it back in and going down as deep as he could.

 

“Holy fuck,” Ron breathed; his hips stuttered up towards Harry's mouth, forcing Harry to back off a little. He took the base of Ron's cock in his hand and focused his mouth on the top part, sucking and moving his hand in tandem. Soon Ron was breathing hard, the muscles in his hips tensing and relaxing.

 

“Stop,” he panted, “stop, Harry –”

 

Harry eased off and sat up, wiping his mouth and trying discreetly to crack his jaw. Hermione drew him into a kiss, and he let her chase Ron's flavour around his mouth. “Thank you, Harry,” she said quietly when they disengaged. “I think he needed that.”

 

“I'm right here, you know.” Ron was pushing himself up on his elbows. He looked harassed. “Fucking hell, mate.”

 

Harry couldn't help but grin. “Let a man have a few secret talents.”

 

“Oh yeah, 'cause you don't have quite enough talents yet.” Ron was looking at him with wide, intense eyes.

 

“Don't worry, I'll teach you.” Harry felt more than a little giddy.

 

“Now _there's_ a plan,” Hermione said, smiling as she lowered herself on her side, supporting her bump with a hand. “I'll be taking notes, then, too. Now, if I may play my overly horny pregnant lady card – I'd really like someone to pay some attention to me.”

 

“She means you,” Ron told Harry. “I pay more than enough attention to her as it is.”

 

“Always interesting to see how our perspectives vary,” Hermione said mildly, and she put out a hand towards Harry. He took it and let himself be pulled towards her.

 

“Is there anything I should, or shouldn't –?”

 

“No-oo,” she said. “We'd better avoid weight on my stomach, but that's not a problem in this position. Everything else is absolutely fine.” She sighed when he stroked a hand up her side. “Just – don't wait too long, I can't really stand a lot of foreplay at the moment.”

 

“She's not kidding, mate,” Ron said, watching them with his head on his hand. “Don't fiddle around too much. Don't worry about being a gentleman, there's plenty of time for that when she's not pregnant.”

 

“All right,” Harry said, though it felt a little strange to get behind Hermione and align his groin with her arse without touching or kissing much of her. He caressed her waist, following the smooth dark skin down the bump, and then up to her breast.

 

“Not the nipple,” Hermione warned.

 

“She likes it usually, just not now,” Ron said. “You can touch her, just be careful.”

 

Harry cradled her breast, just holding it without applying too much pressure. It felt heavy and full in his hand. “Is that okay?”

 

“Yes, very good,” she said, stretching back against him.

 

He kissed her shoulder, scraping his teeth gently across the muscle that connected it to her neck, and nosed the mass of her hair out of the way so he could kiss her neck.

 

“Harry, I love you and this is lovely,” she murmured after a few moments of this, “but please, just put your cock inside me.”

 

Ron caught Harry's look across her and laughed. “Better just do it, mate. Here, I'll help.” He took hold of Hermione's knee and lifted her leg a little.

 

“Thanks for the assistance,” she said, and Harry could hear her smile.

 

“That's what you keep me around for, isn't it?”

 

“Yes, I'm glad it's finally paying off.”

 

Harry smoothed his hand down over her arse, revelling in the generous softness of her, and ran his fingers over the folds of her vulva. She was slick and welcoming, and when he slipped his finger over her labia up to find her clit, she shivered noticeably. He circled it with his fingertip, slowly at first and then a little faster, and she moaned quietly. He could feel her getting wetter against his wrist.

 

“Good?” he asked her quietly.

 

“Good, but I want you to get inside,” she said, and stuck her arse out against him, improving his access.

 

“Is she always this bossy in bed?” he asked Ron over her shoulder.

 

“Absolutely,” Ron said serenely. “Shouldn't be a surprise, mate.”

 

He slipped his index finger into her, sinking easily into the slick warmth of her. The angle made it hard to penetrate her deeply, but she let out a low, gratified moan. He added a second finger, pushing upward into her. He fingered her for a while, thrilled by how wet she was and the way she pushed back against his hand.

 

“Harry,” she whined, “ _come on_.”

 

“All right, all right,” he said, smiling, and aligned himself so he could push in where his fingers were. He nudged the head of his cock into her, biting down on his lip, and slowly slid in as deep as he could go.

 

“Oh, yesss,” she breathed when he was fully inside. He stayed still for a moment, getting the pleasure of it under control, and then started rocking inside her. The heat inside her gripped him and he shifted his hips, trying for a deeper angle.

 

“Fuck, you should see her face right now, Harry,” Ron said. Harry glanced at him, and saw that he was holding Hermione's hand, their fingers so tightly interlocked the knuckles were white.

 

“Wish I could,” he breathed, and kissed her neck. “Wish I could see.”

 

She said his name, deep in her throat, and he moaned, picking up the pace, his arousal getting more urgent. The muscles in his thighs were starting to twinge in exertion; he didn't have much leverage in this position, and he had to be careful that he didn't slip out of her.

 

“Harry,” Hermione panted, “Harry, can you – reach across me and touch me?”

 

He slid his hand over her hip, through her pubic hair and felt between the slick folds of her labia for her clit.

 

“Yes,” she hissed, “ _there_ –” and when he circled the little nub her inner walls contracted around his cock and her breathing stuttered.

 

He smeared his open mouth against her shoulder, muffling his sounds. The hot pleasure in his gut was flaring with every thrust into her body; he could feel the first tendrils of his orgasm beginning to uncoil.

 

“Keep doing that, Harry,” Ron said hoarsely, “faster – yeah, like that.”

 

He rubbed her, trying to keep up a pace, ignoring the awkward angle of his wrist.

 

“I'm close, just – a bit more, Harry, please –”

 

“I think I'm – gonna come too,” he panted, “is that okay –?”

 

“Yes,” she said, and she laughed a little, breathing hard. “That's great, that's _lovely_ – oh, Harry –”

 

It didn't take long until she began to make little breathy sounds like sobs, and the convulsions of her muscles around his cock when she came made him bite down hard on her shoulder as he emptied himself inside her.

 

Her orgasm lasted longer than his; she ground her clit against his fingers, and he had the presence of mind to keep touching her even as his own pleasure faded. They stilled, panting hard.

 

“Holy fuck,” Ron said, sounding strangled.

 

Hermione laughed weakly. “Are you okay? You look – a little haunted.” She shifted away from Harry a little and there was the sound of them kissing.

 

“Oh, shit,” Harry breathed as his focus sharpened, and he saw the teeth marks on her shoulder. Gently he kissed them. “Sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to do that.”

 

“Don't worry,” she said, and then she laughed a little. “You deliver simultaneous orgasms, you get some licence.”

 

“Yeah, that's … that's actually never happened to me before.” He slid out of her carefully.

 

“Not to knock your technique, but the pregnancy helps a lot, in my case.” She rolled onto her back and smiled up at him. “Goodness, Harry, that was great.”

 

They kissed, slow and sloppy.

 

Harry looked up at Ron, who was still watching them. “How about you?”

 

“About to die, to be honest,” Ron said, conversationally. Harry looked at his cock; it was hard against his stomach, flushed red at the head.

 

“Oh, poor baby,” Hermione said, grinning. She sat up. “Stay there, I'm coming.”

 

She shuffled over to him and sat astride him; she guided his cock into her with her hand. She sighed happily as she sank down.

 

“I love you,” Ron breathed, smoothing his hands over her bump and up to her waist.

 

“I know,” she replied, and ground her hips against his; it didn't take long before his mouth fell open and he came soundlessly, face scrunched up.

 

Harry watched them, the tenderness in their kisses as they separated. 

 

And then with some shuffling Harry ended up in the middle, one arm around either of them. Hermione's belly was warm and heavy against his one side, and Ron was slotted under his other shoulder, smelling of sex and Ron. Holding them, Harry's heart swelled and felt like it was transgressing its boundaries; bursting at the dams. It brought tears to his eyes to even think about the fact that there were so many possible ways that this would never have happened to him; that he'd very nearly lived his life without knowing their love in this way. “I love you.”

 

“Love you too, Harry,” Hermione said, and she snuggled a bit closer.

 

“Yeah, love you, mate,” Ron mumbled, clearly nearly asleep.

 

He gathered them a little closer; Hermione hooked her leg over his.

 

“We can't fall asleep,” she murmured. “We need to shower.”

 

“Relax, 'Mione, we'll shower in a minute,” Ron said softly.

 

There was a long silence. Harry's eyelids started to droop.

 

“Hey, Harry,” Hermione said. “I forgot to say thank you for the flowers.”

 

“Oh, right. That was to apologise for boozing like a teenager in your house.”

 

She pressed her mouth to his shoulder. “Well, I think that rather turned out well, wouldn't you say?”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I would.”


End file.
